Wednesday, March 6, 2019

This
means we only have Howard Schultz. We only have one fatuous billionaire to not
vote for on the Democratic ticket in 2020.

How
are we going to get through the election cycle with only one narcissistic,
out-of-touch, ignorant, bloviating, pontificating, flatulent, misguided,
egocentric, shit-for-brains, fuckwit billionaire to mock and spew our bile at?
We’re doomed.

This
is the American form of democracy. It all breaks down if billionaires aren’t
trying to buy the presidency. I know that the rest of the 73 candidates are
likely millionaires. So what? A millionaire compared to a billionaire is like
watching the Andy Griffith Show after
Don Knotts left or requesting to listen to heavy metal music and they play Bon
Jovi. It’s not the same.

We
need more clueless, unwanted, nefarious, criminal, uncaring, pettifogging,
arrogant, oily, humorless, morally bankrupt assclown billionaires to revile and
send home to cry in their bitcoins.

CNN,
MSNBC, FOX and other news outlets have hours of airtime to fill with the
recitation of stupid ideas, made up stories, false equivalencies and lies
wrapped in prevarication. Who better to present this literally unbelievable
information than billionaires who haven’t spoken to a regular American since
they excoriated the parking valet at their private club for leaving a palm
print on their Bugatti.

The
Democrats are going to run a thousand different candidates up the flag pole to
see which one can flap in the breeze strong enough to defeat Captain Meathead
in 2020. More of them need to be billionaires to show us definitively who not
to vote for, who can’t run the country, and who needs to hide away in their
mansion and shut the hell up.

Thursday, February 7, 2019

This
past Sunday we were all hurt. Go ahead, let it out, we’re all feeling it.
Football season is over and that, that
is how it ended.

We
expected some discomfort because we were being forced to watch the insufferable
Patriots again. But the level of pain we were subjected to was a shock. Missed
field goals, dropped passes, bad passes, bad officiating, missed blocks, missed
tackles, punt after punt after punt, no scoring.

At
the party I attended people were openly weeping, begging deities of all
religions to save us. My brother converted to Rastafarianism thinking the music
of Eek-a-Mouse would calm his transient nausea, but the last I saw he was in
the corner mumbling about not having enough hair to grow dreadlocks. The rest
of us called in a pastor for an explanation. We had done nothing wrong, so why
were we being punished? As the seconds wound down on the first quarter the
pastor himself was on his knees crying to the heavens “Oh God why hast thou
forsaken us? They can’t even kick a field goal!”

Mid-way
through the second quarter we were so lost we called in a philosopher to help
us with our existential dread. His Jean-Paul Sartre quotes of “man is a useless
passion” and “nothingness haunts being” were not helpful. By the time he was
deep into Nietzsche’s treatise on the abyss we were angry. Punching him wasn’t soothing
so we kicked him instead which acted as a mild balm for our wounds. We left him
outside contemplating the puddle of snot pooling around his nose and mumbling
Heidegger nonsense.

The
game was a brutal examination of ineptitude that we dragged behind us like a
boat anchor. “Maybe the half time show will cheer us up,” we thought. Music is
a great healer.

I
think it was my sister who snapped first. “Turn it off, turn it off!” she
yelled. “Music isn’t supposed to sound like that!” Every note was like a pill
caught in our collective throats. The air became heavy and unbreathable. With
each article of clothing Adam Levine took off, the songs got exponentially
worse until it sounded like a combination of Mongolian throat singing and
Coldplay.

We
were barely hanging onto our sanity by the time the second half started. We
watched the whole 3rd quarter under the influence of peyote, hoping
to hallucinate a good game. It started off ok as I saw Joe Montana riding a
white stallion, throwing passes with both hands to a thousand receivers named
Jerry. Unfortunately, a dragon from my niece’s delusion invaded mine and ate
Montana. After that the field melted into an ice cream bar filled with trolls,
loose change and multiple Walter Matthaus.

The
end of the game was chaos. One of my brother’s had his head buried in the
cheese dip murmuring “I can’t watch anymore, I can’t.” My sister, on the edge
of a nervous breakdown since halftime, was reading Dickens loudly to drown out
Tony Romo’s voice: “ ‘IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES . .
.’ ” My other brother was on eBay trying to win an auction for an ICBM to blow
up the stadium but kept getting out-bid by a penny by some Russian account. My
niece took more peyote and was lying prone on the floor. “I’m righteous,” was
all she said when asked any question. I was outside walking the neighborhood
ringing a bell shouting “10 o’clock and all is not well, 10 o’clock and all is
not well.”

What
happened to all of us on Sunday was unfair. As football fans, casual gamblers
and people who just like eating at parties, we deserved better. Baseball season
starts in a few weeks. Perhaps the boredom of that will erase the bad memories
of Super Bowl 53.

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

By
the title of this piece you’re probably thinking it’s an erudite, in-depth look
at print journalism through the decades and how it has affected all of our
lives, from “Dewey defeats Truman” through Watergate to present day treatises
on our divided population.

What
has happened to our nation’s newspapers? How did an actor wearing sunglasses
indoors become a story? It wasn’t just a headline, there were several
paragraphs breathlessly detailing Leo’s entire sartorial ensemble. The writer’s
conclusion was he was wearing the sunglasses indoors to stay incognito. But
that didn’t work. Another celebrity, comedian Kevin Hart, spotted Leo right
away, giving him the secret Hollywood handshake and double wink of celebrity
Illuminati.

Where
was this headline:

Thousands watch Lakers game with doctor-prescribed
eyewear or contacts

Or
this:

Hundreds occasionally look up from
phones to watch moments of Lakers game

I’m
all for light hearted entertainment news, I read Entertainment Weekly. But this. This isn’t “news” of any kind. This
is an ego-centric douche wearing sunglasses indoors like ALL egocentric douches
do. It’s evolution. Once Leo was human, but with increasing fame and success he
metamorphosized to a clothes-wearing douche. Once that happened, the sunglasses
indoors were part of his DNA.

The
NY Post didn’t have to write about it, they chose to because journalism is
dead. The Post didn’t kill it, they just drove the knife in a little deeper.